


Copping Out of a Good Thing

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Police, Bisexual Male Character, Denial of Feelings, Detective Dean, Enemies to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Openly Bisexual Dean, Police Officer Castiel, Some Plot, one f bomb whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 06:22:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4090300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the get-go, he knew between he and Cas who was going to play the good cop/bad cop. Between his cock-eyed stare and his voice that dropped an octave lower when he muttered something cross about detaining the wife for questioning, the detective-in-training had the sort of demeanor that would’ve made Jules Winnfield look like a rookie. That’s when Dean decided this guy had definitely seen some things—things that a Netflix subscription would gladly provide him. </p><p>“Hey, Kojak,” he just about barked, “no one’s detaining anyone, alright? Chill out.”</p><p>Or the one where Dean gets reassigned a new partner who's way too cute for his own good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Copping Out of a Good Thing

“Carbon monoxide poisoning,” mused one Dean Winchester, known for his silver tongue when it came to politics and classic rock, and was absolutely hardnosed when it came to his opinions on the force. He held in one hand a release from the Douglas County Sheriff Office and a drink in the other. “That’s exactly the kind of crack police work I’d expect out of the department.”

His partner, Det. Benny Lafitte, laughed at his front—as he’s been doing for ten-odd years previous. He was tilted back in his barcalounger, a Scotch in hand. Benny’s not much of a drinking man, especially not during the asscrack of midnight, but for his best friend, he’d make the exception. God knows what he’d do if he listened to his one-sided debates without it. “You thinkin’ somethin’ else?”

“Suicide is one thing, but our John Doe was a doe-eyed twenty-something with one kid in the cradle and one in the oven. No signs of self-inflicted injuries, no history with counteractive medications—hell, Benny, the guy was building his niece a dollhouse for her fourth birthday. Why would he drop out of the race now?”

Now it was Benny’s turn to put on his front: stern, yet empathetic. Tough love, as Dean called it. “Brotha, it doesn’t have to take a miracle to send someone over the edge.”

“I know, I know,” Dean rambled, then after a hard moment’s hesitation: “Believe me, I know. It’s not the fate of the younger generation I’m worried about, it’s this case. I mean, it’s not _labeled_ a case, and that’s what’s eating at me. It’s just not… there’s no…”

He didn’t need to finish for Benny to get the gist. Dean’s little brother, Sammy (not little in the eyes of the law—he definitely didn’t lack in height, either—but little in the eyes of Dean), passed away shortly after his second year at Stanford. Twenty-two; drug overdose, but Dean’s still not convinced. Just like he’s not convinced that this twenty-something’s case wasn’t just fortuitous.

Dean took these sorts of cases personally; it was his way of coping. And if it did so happen that there was more to the story, then he’d carry it out like a top-notch detective, maybe even get an MOV out of it. “If there’s no conclusive evidence, go out and find you some.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know if I can swing it—”

“Don’t give me any’a that horseshit. You’re a detective, for Christ sakes: Conduct your own research. You work under the law, but it’s your job to uphold it if somethin’s oversteppin’ those parameters.” He paused to down his over-nursed liquor in a swift move. “What’s the worst Campbell can do? Knock ya for wastin’ your own gas on a deadbeat case?”

The corners of the gumshoe’s lips turned up at that. He omitted the paper and the drink in his hand for a split second to cross his arms and lean against the arm of the opposing loveseat. “What am I gonna do without you, man?”

“Well, you’re gonna work this case for one,” he pointed out, accentuating his point with a critical finger in his general direction, “then you’re gonna turn into a giant sap.”

Dean scoffed, “Look who’s talking, Mr. Mom. You’re gonna be a _dada._ ” He coddled the word.

It was true. As of yesterday, Benny lost a title when he became an official retiree for the Douglas County Sheriff’s Office because, as of last month, he gained the title Father Benny Lafitte by his surrogate mother, Andrea. He’d never seen his partner gloat this much since the Red Sox won the championship in ’04 (not like anything sports related made a lick of sense to a boozehound, bi-thirsty thirty-something who was too busy hooking up with everyone and their parents). But then again, the closest thing to family he had had was his brother. Dean was overqualified when it came to deduction skills and combat expertise, but absolutely clueless when it came to family.

Benny deserved this. After twenty years serving his city, it was fair to grant him a new beginning. He and Desmond were going to make great fathers. “Don’ hate,” Benny chided with a curt laugh.

“I’m absolutely green with envy,” he kidded, angling his head to the floor. “I’m not boyfriend material, let alone father material. Jesus, could you imagine?”

“Maybe, but you’re great with Ben.” Ben was Dean’s pseudo-son. Lisa Braeden was a longstanding ex of his who started dating Dean a few years after her kid was born son to some scumbag biker. Dean wasn’t much better than a dropout suitor when it came to relationships, and it was based upon a mutual agreement when he and Lisa decided to be friends. But he ended up staying more than good friends with her son, Ben, who, for whatever reason, idolized Dean. So he used the opportunity to do all the things he never got to do with his dad, everything from fly-fishing and paragliding to binge-watching _The Walking Dead_ and _Game of Thrones_.

Dean cocked his head, considering the statement, but still fixated on a loose carpet string. “He’s a good kid.”

“So, this case,” Benny began, not letting a moment pass between them, “you gonna work it?”

“Of course I’m gonna work the fucking case, have you even been listening?”

The ex-detective leaned forward when Dean had picked up both the abandoned glass and coroner’s report again, pouring in another round, his smile obvious. “That’s the Dean Winchester I know.”

***

He was at the department when it happened. Nothing could prepare him for this as Dean stood in front of his chief, embittered by the news presented to him. In order to serve his town, he’d have to be reassigned a new partner. Typically, the transaction was a twenty-four hour situation, but since it was that time of year when the leaves turned from that boring green-brown color to vibrant sunset colors, that meant open season for new recruits. Dean would meet his new wingman today.

Not like he even needed one. Unless the dude was Val Kilmer in the flesh, he’s not reconsidering. Benny was the only partner he’d ever needed, and even _that_ wasn’t love at first sight. Moreover, Benny was pushing forty and Dean was just barely climbing over the big 3-0. He needed someone reliable, not someone he’d have to bereliable _for_.  

“Chief, I think I can handle this case alone.”

Chief Campbell combed his hands through his scalp, a habit he’d no doubt acquired from years of catering to the federal bureau. “You’re still not going on about the Flores case, are you, Detective?”

“Sir, if you’d let me explain—”

“No, you let _me_ explain, Detective,” he cut in brusquely, “if I authorized consent for an investigative search into a suicide case, it’s _me_ who’s going to have some explaining to do.”

Dean ground his teeth hard into his molars. He couldn’t argue with his superior. The only thing he could do was smile, bend over and say Thank you, sir! May I have another? “Who’s the new guy?”

The Chief was hunched over; glasses that flew to his desk seconds ago to prove a point were back to floating on his ridiculously big nose. He was jotting down something indecipherable (whoever said GPs had the worst penmanship obviously hasn’t seen a police form) onto a Post-it note. Strange to think that, in one flick of his wrinkled wrist, Dean could be sacked from the force.

If he’s being honest, it wouldn’t be the first time the thought’s dawned on him. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t refer to him as ‘the new guy’,” he responded without looking up. “You were once, too.”

That shut Dean up quick. When Campbell realized he’d apprehended his now undivided attention, he decided to give him the guy’s vita in short. After all, he was going to be under Dean’s advisement, so he had the right to know the skinny about him. “P.O. Castiel Novak, former training at Illinois State Police Academy under Sergeant Naomi Tapping, graduated in the ninety-eighth percentile—”

“Ninety-seventh, actually, but I don’t mind the flattery.”

Dean sucked the inside of his lip with his front teeth, stifling a smile. Strike 1: Do not, under any circumstances, kid with the head boss. Samuel Campbell was not the kidding type. The detective remembered when he had a double homicide case on Valentine’s Day. The bodies—a young couple with little to no physical lacerations—tested positive for a drug generally used to treat heart disease. When they got the report back from the coroner, the chief was impassive upon finding out the news of a serial killer on the loose. Dean said, “C’mon, Campbell, have a heart.” Not even a blink.

Whoever this Castielguy was, he sure was ballsy.

Dean would’ve rescued the poor soul, except the part where the chief of command waslaughing. No, he wasn’t laughing, he was downright _cackling._ “Son of a bitch, welcome aboard, Novak.”

The detective shifted his focus to the big kahuna behind him (which, upon further scrutiny, should be apropos of anything associated with the words “little” and “young” instead) and okay, maybe he did have a certain appeal to him. Maybe his eyes were the right shade of blue, and his dark hair the right kind of messy, and those plump, pink lips resting on his immaculate jawline would be the perfect appetizer while he imagined working his way around those two perfectly sculptured Jell-O shots delineated by black fabric but—wait, why was he blushing?

Dean was so immersed in his own thoughts that he hadn’t noticed Castiel’s hand offered to him. What, did he have a stroke? This wasn’t Battleship, there’s only one logical move to make here.

“It’ll be my pleasure working with you, Detective. I’ve heard only good things.”

Dean’s voice instantly dropped two octaves to match Castiel’s. He took his hand. No wedding band, just beautiful fingers. He tried not to sound too desperate saying, “The pleasure’s all mine.”

“Your case file will be on your desk tomorrow morning,” the Chief chimed in as a fitting footnote. He focused solely on Dean when he said, in all-seriousness, “Feel free to take your POS car.”

Dean reverted back to his old lip-biting technique. He was the proud owner of a four-door ’67 Impala—refurbished and still somehow kept in mint condition after years of tearing up the road. For one reason or another, Campbell felt the need to knock him for driving her around.  Dean hypothesized two possible theories (because he specialized in drawing conclusions, okay): He’d developed bad taste or he secretly envies him.

Either way, Dean’s the one who gets to drive her to and from work every day.

Cas snapped his head to his new colleague, intrigued. “Wait, you’re the guy with the black Chevy?”

“Correctomundo, partner”—and he _certainly_ didn’t mean that as a work-suitable term (like Dean was ever going to just grant him that title anyway)—“Why do you ask?”

The blue-eyed man shifted his eyes to his loafers before nodding toward the window. “No reason, but I’m pretty sure you’re getting towed in a few seconds.”

This week just got better and better.

***

Thank God they didn’t have to take the _real_ POS car—a paper-white Ford Crown Victoria that’s only considered a classic in the law enforcement agency—on their assignment. As serving head detective, he could afford to rescue his baby from vehicle impoundment. (He was just glad they didn’t scratch her interior. It was bad enough someone else was feeling her up, now he had to worry about sweat stains on the leather.) If he was on Castiel’s salary, he might not have been so lucky.

Now they were driving to some case in the bumfuck boonies. Or so Dean had led Castiel to believe.

“Dean, our case is north.”

He had one of those impassive personalities. Either he’d seen it all or he hadn’t seen enough. “Yeah,” he acknowledged, as if his intentions weren’t obvious enough.

Cas pursed his lips with a soft _smack._ “We’re heading south.”

“That would also be correct.”

Seeing the tips of his ears turn bright pink when he caught on was kind of cute.

No, he couldn’t impregnate his mind with pipedreams. He had a case to work. Lives were at stake. Or, well, could be, depending on who you asked.

This is what he knew: John Doe’s name was Nathaniel Flores. He was last seen by his wife at 10:43pm, brushing his teeth for bed. He was pronounced dead in the front of his _Back to the Future_ -esque car—a 1982 Silver Chevrolet Camaro z28—windows down, engine running at 12:04am. He had a clean slate. No history of violence, domestic or otherwise, no mental issues… and not even two hours elapsed and the guy’s down in his garage, cranking his car? It’s all a little fishy.

He explained all this to Cas before they sidled onto the curb of the victim’s house. Something else he knew about John Doe—Nathaniel, he reprimanded—was that he was a physical therapist and did it ever show. The place itself was something out of _Better Homes and Gardens_ with the white picket fence, a tamed lawn, and working chimney. There was no way you had a house like that and didn’t say Grace one too many times.

Visitation hours fell on a Sunday today. Unless Mrs. Flores was out at church, it was the perfect day for interrogation—ahem, investigation.

Dean didn’t even have this nice of a house growing up. Hell, Dad was always gone on business and Mom would nag at him to mow the lawn or pick up the laundry from inside the dumbwaiter (really, who even _had_ a dumbwaiter nowadays? Was that even a pitch anymore: “Great home for sale, two-story, refurbished, working dumbwaiter!”?), but he was always more invested in food and procedural cop shows to even think about getting around to chores. And look where it got him.

From the get-go, he knew between he and Cas who was going to play the good cop/bad cop. Between his cock-eyed stare and his voice that dropped an octave lower when he muttered something cross about detaining the wife for questioning, the detective-in-training had the sort of demeanor that would’ve made Jules Winnfield look like a rookie. That’s when Dean decided this guy had definitelyseen some things—things that a Netflix subscription would gladly provide him.

“Hey, Kojak,” he just about barked, “no one’s detaining anyone, alright? Chill out.”

Cas replicated something close to a scowl, but dropped the act nonetheless. Before Dean could approach the door, his overeager pseudo-partner trailing close behind him, a shot rang out in the distance, followed by two, three, even four. They both scrambled for quick refuge behind a dense rosebush in the driveway. After a minute of what had to have been the assailant unloading his or her round, they both caught their breath, all words lodged somewhere in the backs of their throats.

Dean’s logic told him to check on his colleague first, as he’d been the last to duck. As luck would so gracefully have it, he was not even a few inches below his peripheral. “H-hi.”

The detective nearly butted heads with him—quite literally this time—as he wrangled a proper response to conciliate his mind. Dean’s used to being shot at, it’s practically become his M.O. Cas had yet to experience the perks of real police work. “Look, man, I don’t wanna freak you out, but you’re bleeding…”

Of course what came out was the _exact opposite_ of what he was supposed to say. Let’s just send the poor guy’s brain into overdrive and decrease his pain tolerance to zero.

“Oh, look at that…” He was fading, no, no— “Cas, hey, focus on my voice.”

Dean could feel Castiel’s heart race faster than a speeding bullet (too soon?), as he turned to look at him again. Well, that was unexpected. “I’m sorry, I—I was trying to—”

“Don’t talk, Cas,” he nearly pleaded, because a) he was bleeding out in ways that Dean didn’t even dream possible and b) there was still a killer on the loose. “Just…”

And then somehow, Dean was leaning further into his personal space and pulling out his arm to place his hand over the inflicted area. With the other, he used a loose thorn branch to effectively tear part of his coat and wrap it around Castiel’s shoulder. The other man hissed in pain, but kept doing as he was told. Moments passed and he was staring so intently into Dean’s emerald eyes he’d need to fill a prescription for a pair of glasses.

Whatever he found there calmed him drastically and he was the first to speak up again, this time more prudent: “I was trying to get one step ahead.”

“Cas, please, just—”

“Detective, those shots were coming at you.”

Given his longstanding reputation as a gumshoe, Dean laughed. “Someone’s always trying to kill me, Cas. I have two ex-wives. Not for nothing, either, those two can really—”It wasn’t until Dean was gaping at him for a good portion of time that he realized what was said.

“You’re welcome…” Castiel had a smirk on his face now. “I’ve got to say, though—”

“Thank you!” Dean blurted, nearly blowing their cover. Cas coughed in place of a laugh.

“As… I was saying,” he continued in a voice barely above whisper, “I imagined this scene under very different circumstances.”

Their proximity, right. Honestly, Dean was so honed in on his wound that he hadn’t paid much attention to anything else at the moment. Cas just felt like extra cushion—with a little more padding in the nether regions, but he wasn’t complaining. Probably could’ve have been better timing to sport an erection, though.

Dean chucked despite his better judgment, “I, uh, I’ll take note of that.”

“Good, I’m counting on it…”

***

Cas was basically deadweight by the time Dean got him to a hospice. Luckily, his hard-on was tamed by the time the nurses wheeled him into the ER. It wouldn’t have been ideal to explain to the doctor on call that no, this wasn’t some kinky fantasy taken a little too far, my shirt just happens to be ripped because it was last resort, what do you expect? Yes, he’s a real police officer. No, doctor, I didn’t accidentally shoot one of my comrades.

God, he could just feel the judgment breathing down his neck.

Then again, this was his fault. If he hadn’t dragged Cas along on his trail of misadventures (which happened to be a real case after all, _Campbell_ ), he wouldn’t be in this mess.

After about an hour and a half of pacing between the bright red EXIT sign and Cas’s door, the doctor, Jody something-or-other, gave him permission to see him.

“Hey…” He dragged the word as long as he could upon entering. What do you say to a guy whose life you’d just put in complete peril? Nothing from the vending machines down the hall or the flower shop across the street would mend a laceration that big.

Castiel turned on his upper half, exposing one of his pecks through the paper-thin hospital sheets he’d already managed to wrap himself in. “Oh, hey,” he replied, scanning him up and down before resting his full-blown sapphire eyes on his own. “Are you okay? You’re kinda pale.”

“Would you believe me if I said I saw a ghost stalking these hallways?”

That made the officer chuckle, though he groaned a little at the pain it brought to him. Otherwise, his crooked smile, much like the rest of him, remained intact. “Maybe if they doped me up with enough morphine.”

“Look, man, I’m sorry I—” It was then as he held his gaze—probably for the dozenth time in that morning alone considering their circumstances, really looked at him—that he realized the space between everything he hadn’t said and wanted to say wouldn’t amount to anything worthwhile. Castiel was one of few that would turn the allegorical tide when it came to taking the bullet. 

When Cas found his Granny Smith’s again, it was with slit eyes and a curious head tilt. “Detective?”

“Sorry, I uh—” Dean choked. Instead of exerting more energy to explain his behavior, he told him in the form of a feather-light embrace to his bowed cheek. “I was just thinking, don’t scratch her.”

In his hand was the key to the Chevy Impala. A newly blanched Cas shook his head negative. “Detective, I couldn’t…”

“That’s Partner to you,” he corrected, “and you can. You can also accompany me to dinner tonight.”

Then Cas beamed so hard getting up he nearly broke his stitches. “Whatever you say, Partner.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up on Tumblr @ doppelganging-misha. I love to chat!


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